


Capitulation

by 0hHarvey



Category: Dress Up! Time Princess (Video Game)
Genre: Crack Treated Seriously, Denial of Feelings, F/M, Hardcore flirting, Jealously, Major Historial Inaccuracies, Minor Historial Inaccuracies, Minor Historical Accuracies, No Lemon / Smut, Romance Ending, Semi-Slow Burn, We Stan a Murderous French Man, soft romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:54:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27079168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0hHarvey/pseuds/0hHarvey
Summary: His posture has yet to give, and his expression challenges her curiously, the edge of his mouth pulling upwards at the abrupt return of her rapacious inquisitiveness.“Because you are a liar, Minister Blaisdell.” Her hands fold at her front, the opposition in her eyes is engaging. It was strikingly familiar. He found himself fond of her for it.He smiles fully now, in admission of defeat. He could rightfully argue that he has never lied. He could defend that he has only ever manipulated truths; withheld facts. Perhaps removed a variable or two, both people and stipulations, to ensure he’s not made a liar. He instead chooses, out of respect, to cease fire. Compared to his supposed ‘long-winded insult’ against her earlier, Marie had managed to be rather succinct in her own.Marie Antoinette / Minister Blaisdell
Relationships: Marie Antoinette/Minister Blaisdell (Dress Up! Time Princess)
Comments: 33
Kudos: 151





	1. Liar

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All Dress Up! Time Princess character concepts belong to IGG Mobile Games Inc. Character names are historically inspired. No copyright infringement is intended. Plagiarism is theft so is prohibited. Do not copy or create a reproduction of this work in any language without express written authorization of the author, 0hHarvey. Thank you. Please enjoy.
> 
> Minister Blaisdell / Marie Antoinette (Reader, OC, & Self Insert possible). 
> 
> A/N: This is a commissioned fic.

He’d figured it out in just about a year. She can't wrap her head around the notion, much less definitively confirm his hypothesis or accusation. Regardless, Marie found the methods used in developing his theory rather... _unnerving_. He'd meticulously and discreetly taken note of the changes in her behavior, and had apparently been suspicious of her from their first interaction. It struck a chord in her brain which triggered her most instinctual fight or flight responses.

But...this is _Blaisdell_. One of the most trusted and _respected_ members of the aristocracy. The very feats which unnerve her are necessary byproducts of his profession. A profession that she values immensely. Therefore, she supposes she'd done this to herself with how drastically and immediately she'd implemented changes. Her decisions were fueled by her desperate need to survive the now settled, still unexplained, crisis. Yet her impatience had unsurprisingly been her undoing as it always has - _for both she and the real Marie_ \- from what she can recall. Impatience is one of the few similarities she can note between herself and the Queen. 

Only...she _is_ the Queen. And Marie is _also_ the Queen. Is...she _not_ Queen? Or is she _Marie_? Lines are blurring. Specifically, the lines that'd distinguished her memories from Marie's. Those lines are barely notable, if not gone entirely. There are days she struggles with recollections. Some days she can't recall the simplest of things. Foods. Flavors. Smells. Places. Other's, she forgets her mother. Her grandfather. Marie's? Theresa? She remembers Theresa. Such a treasure to her country.

She asks herself why she was never more like her mother. She doesn't know. She can't _remember_. Some days she forgets entirely. The present required all of her attention.

And yet Blaisdell had managed to remind her in the most curt, irresponsible, and dangerous of ways. Borderline disastrous to both his physical well-being and her psyche. Under far more normal circumstances, it would be potentially treasonous. Treason over an accusation, made during a proper stroll through the gardens, his hands crossed lax at his lower back.

"I've no intention of outing you, my Queen. I'm actually rather taken with the recent change. However, I am increasingly curious to know - what has happened to the _genuine_ Marie Antoinette?" He smiles politely, anticipating an answer as though he hadn't just accused her of a heinous crime. One deserving of a guillotine, per the trial of her previous doppelganger.

They had just been discussing the improvements of the coastal cities. The new shipyards and their gradual changes. A friendly chat after having happened to cross paths, walking at a steady pace through the lilacs. _How had he thought this appropriate?_

He watches her suddenly unsteady demeanor. She stops completely and looks at him so oddly. Genuine confusion, crossing so crisply across her gentle features. It reaches her eyes so well that it may have even fooled someone as tenured and as practiced as himself. He had considered that she may be an enemy to circumstance. Perhaps an agent of King George. Perhaps a surrogate sent by the royals of Austria, given Marie's previously...poor...rate of approval.

He found himself smitten with the idea, despite being rather unrealistic. Every decision thus far has only bore benefits to France and the royal family. And he can firmly conclude that there is no revolution or coup brewing out of sight, given his frequent involvement in more questionable affairs.

He smiles, humored, as her expression becomes cross.

"Is this some long-winded insult, Blaisdell?" Her cheeks puff. She crosses her arms like a man of military prestige.

"Forgive the miscommunication, my Queen. That was not my intention," he apologizes. She finds it disingenuous.

Marie blinks obviously before her eyes narrow. He finds interest in the very slight twitch at the corner of her mouth before she speaks. "Then what _is_ your intention?"

"The implication that you are not Marie Antoinette."

The change is instantaneous. He can see her panic behind the insulted facade.

Her eyes dart about the garden. There’s thankfully a lack of spectators; though she knows he'd never be so recklessly bold with a crowd. "And what, _pray tell_ , motivates this suspicion?"

"There would be less to list of what _doesn't_ , my Queen."

Condescending. _An ass_.

She scowls deeply. It's unbecoming. " _Blaisdell_ -"

"Your changed political stance," he starts. "Your preference in tea over coffee. The amount of thought and consideration you place into your decisions. Your confidence in the King. For the last year, you've done nothing to benefit your own interests or the aristocracy. You've not gambled, nor have you sympathized with enemies of France or the international debt owed for our investments in revolutionary affairs. I'd dare to say you have little to no similarities to the... _former_...Queen."

Marie takes a step back, creating distance. Her eyes follow the practiced placement of his hand against his chest before meeting his eye line. She's as red as the ribbon about the lace of her neck. Her hands tremble. "You forget yourself, Blaisdell."

"On the contrary. Her Majesty appears to be the forgetful one," he taunts. He's wearing his trademark smirk, a single brow barely arched. The very look that often intimidated her husband. 

Her eyes avert to the cobblestone. The reminder stings. "More than I can explain." 

Marie presses her lips together, stiff and flustered. The sounds of nature are lacking as she considers how transparent she is under his scrutiny. Her toes curl in her heels; folded arms tense and defensive. She can't remember anything. Only Marie. Only her Austrian upbringing. Less and less of her original life. Like every living second eats away at who she used to be. She finds herself shifting her weight from one leg to the other, blinking back the slight beginnings of glassy-eyed frustration. A sense of dread obscures her prior vivacity. 

She hugs herself tighter. The world feels crushingly small. 

Blaisdell frowns, assessing her. He takes a step closer. "You've played the role _too_ well."

"Not well enough, apparently," she scoffs, waving him off. She'd been exposed. All that time and effort, for naught. "When did you realize?"

Any humor has left him, and he stands rather straight and rather close. An attempt at comfort and discretion, perhaps? His demeanor has changed upon her evident fear. Still, she wonders how ridiculous she looks; teary and tense as though being berated like a child by the King's most trusted minister. 

"Last month. You requested a servant bring you tea rather than coffee. When they elaborated on the rarity of your request, and the price to obtain it, you settled for coffee."

He watches her procure her handkerchief, an elaborate navy one, presumably gifted by Duchess Polignac. She is quick to dab away any evidence of weakness. Specific motions taught in schools of etiquette. 

"I'd say that was more of a practicality than proof of anything," Marie scoffs a laugh. "To import something so frivolous from the Far East is a waste."

He raises a brow. "And you think Marie Antoinette is practical? Or benign? Or beloved?"

She stops to rethink his accusation, her brows knitting as she looks up from her handkerchief. 

" _Beloved_?" 

He smirks and diverts his attention elsewhere. " _Nearly_."

There is a weight off her shoulders. He is a high officer to the King, entrusted with the management of both public and royal affairs. To hear the implication that her reputation was improving has lessened her anxiety. A step further from death, for certain. 

"You said you've no intention of outing me." She doesn't believe him. " _Why_?"

His posture has yet to give, and his expression challenges her curiously, the edge of his mouth pulling upwards at the abrupt return of her rapacious inquisitiveness. 

“You don’t believe me.”

“I don’t.” 

“May I ask wh-”

“Because you are a _liar_ , Minister Blaisdell.” Her hands fold at her front, the opposition in her eyes is engaging. It was strikingly familiar. He found himself fond of her for it. 

He recalls the day they’d accused her of purchasing the necklace. 

Blaisdell smiles fully now, in admission of defeat. He could rightfully argue that he has never lied. He could defend that he has only ever manipulated truths; withheld facts. Perhaps removed a variable or two, both people and stipulations, to ensure he’s not _made_ a liar. He admits he doesn't even fully realize where or how she'd come to such a... _debatably_ accurate conclusion. He instead chooses, out of respect for her apparently keen judge of character, to cease fire. Compared to his supposed ‘long-winded insult’, Marie had managed to be rather succinct in her own.

"My loyalty is not to a sorely rotten Austrian Archduchess. It is to this country first, and her monarch second. Your recent efforts are all plainly in favor of stabilizing the political detriment in France. This was critical in re-establishing trust in the royal family despite His Majesty's indecisiveness. Therefore, I will support your...circumstance." He scowls briefly, contemplating the potential effects of his phrasing. "At least until it is no longer propitious."

The Queen sighs under her breath, relieved. She should know that his priorities would indirectly protect her, even if his consideration for her as a person were lacking. Yet the risk alone had terrified her. The tremors in her limbs begin to subside, and the irrational tension that had clutched at her chest and stomach slowly abates. She inhales steadily, fingers curling into the handkerchief as though a lifeline. She can feel her physical stiffness dissolve back into her previously lax posture, and notes his brief expression of complacency at her composure. 

But she does not say anything as she collects herself.

Her silence is unsettling. She is searching his features for tells with a soft, careful expression. Perhaps a precaution given her most recent battle against accusation and deceit. It is the first time, within his reachable memory, that he is the one unnerved in conversation. It’s a foreign, unacceptable feeling that weighs in his lungs. He clears his throat, expression still passive. 

She finds what she's looking for.

“Thank you, Blaisdell,” she smiles tenderly. 

She believes him. 

He averts his attention to the distant flora, evasive of that _look_ she’d just given. A gentle, amiable look he now considers wanting to see in a more private venue under very different circumstances. In early morning, instead of mid afternoon. In his sheets, rather than the garden. 

An unrealistic, _unexpected_ prospect. He disregards the anomaly as quickly as he’d conceived it.

He smiles politely, and bows with a hand over his heart. “Of course, my Queen.”

She reaches to firmly squeeze his hand as a physical form of gratitude. He certainly does not think of the act endlessly for the next two days. 

* * *

End Chapter One.


	2. Tease

She shows up at his place of residence alone, seeking answers as she had months prior during their investigation against Jeanne. An act that is as inappropriate now as it had been before. His personal staff will say nothing, regardless. As far as anyone is concerned, she attended with her aides.

She is comfortable in his office, assessing the details of his furniture as she had the first time. She reads every spine of every book on display, waiting for Blaisdell to seat himself at his desk. He wonders if it is royal audacity, or if she has simply determined that they are close enough for casual behavior. Perhaps neither, given her particularly courteous nature and natural curiosity. 

When she asks about the Polignac family, he tells her that they’re well. That they have little to no concerns. That Gabrielle is rather busy tending to her personal affairs, given the state of her husband. Marie can confirm this is true, given the most recent letters from her closest confidante - quickly scribbled things, signed and dated.

Yet when she requests to know what had occurred to Duke Polignac, specifically? Blaisdell tells her nothing with substance, and instead provides an implication that all is well, and the affairs had been handled with the empathy and understanding of Teresa herself. It is not for a Queen to know what is necessary to maintain the royal family, he assures. 

“You are truly an _impeccable_ liar.” She scowls, hands on either side of her hips and posture atrociously to one side. All this movement in her form despite the plainly evident restrictions of her attire. Another give to her foreign upbringing. 

“With all my respect, your Majesty, _you_ are a rather poor deceiver. The fact that no one else has seen through your ruse is astounding.”

She blinks as though startled by his forwardness, turning to regard him fully. It brings a smile plainly to his face. He watches the corner of her lip twitch upward, as though she is humored and yet withholds it. 

“You know me well enough now to tease me so intrepidly?”

He sits back into his chair, leaning casually with one hand lax at his chin. The Minister’s smile maintains, and he takes a calculated risk forward with a far more evocative tone of voice. "I've not even attempted to tease you, my Queen."

Her eyes go wide, and he watches her hesitate with unbridled amusement. 

"Blaisdell..." she pauses, in mild disbelief of his audacity. She scoffs a laugh, glancing out the windows at the view of his property to evade looking anywhere near his direction. Her mind is too busy dissecting the meaning of his comment to appreciate any aesthetics. 

"Yes, your Majesty?" He responds after a moment as though she were requesting him. Her eyes narrow. His rather smug expression is threatening her resolve. She’s burning red for a reason she can’t possibly ascertain.

Her lips press, settling into a controlled line. Marie remembers to take a breath, mumbling her half-hearted disapproval. "The _nerve_ of you.”

He smiles, and she again retreats to the sight out the window. "Yet you maintain. I'm honored."

"I maintain as I have more questions."

"As do I."

She huffs, watching him lean forward to rest elbows on his desk, hands steepling. "You first then, _Interior_ _ Minister _ ."

She catches a glimpse of his teeth as he barely smiles into a very brief laugh. "I insist that your queries are far more imperative, my Queen. What do you wish to know? Perhaps this time any information I have may be enough to satisfy you." 

Her blood boils to her cheeks; he is so effortlessly pleased with himself. 

"Fine,” Marie relents. She approaches his desk, seating herself carefully in the guest chair as though seeking his audience. “You said you'd finally come to a conclusion about my identity when I'd settled for coffee. I am curious, however, about when you first suspected."

“It was the day his Majesty requested my aid in your preliminary investigation regarding the necklace. You immediately appeared...kinder. Your demeanor had changed entirely since the last time we'd interacted, without transitional periods. It was instantaneous.”

“Had you not considered an epiphany? A change of heart, given my mother?”

He wears a look that tells her she’s foolish. It frustrates her immensely. 

“I'd have considered a break in Lady Antoinette’s mind before I even thought it was strictly compassion.”

“ _Lady_ _Antoinette_ _?_ ” She asks, almost in disbelief. The face she wears is of shock at his audacity, her brows knitted as she assesses the everlasting smugness of his expression. "Are you so certain that I am _not_ Marie Antoinette, that you would go so far as to no longer consider her a royal of France?"   


Her mouth falls open slightly and his eyes fixate on the action momentarily. He averts back to her eye line. 

The Queen does not notice. 

His mirth, at her expense, is contained by only the slightest curve of his mouth, and the raise of his brows as though he awaited a more dramatic reaction. She crosses her arms, straightening her posture at his challenge. There’s no give from him, though, and she refuses to concede to his provocations. Marie remains as steadfast as he is enigmatic, scowling as she awaits his response.   


Blaisdell breaks the silence. He ignores her question. "May I inquire?"

"The last time you asked a question it was rather dangerous. And you've yet to even answer mine, Minister." 

"What is your name?"

"Marie,” she confirms, absolute and immediate. 

He raises a single brow, smirking. His tone is lightly derisive, as though he'd requested a truth rather than what she’s offered. " _ My Queen."  _

Toylingly scolding. 

She debates answering, her index tapping a rhythm he finds unfamiliar against her forearm. Her eyes wander down his coat, then across his desk before returning to the bothersome look of patience upon his face. She finds him distressingly handsome this way…or  _ any _ way. 

She sighs, having made up her mind. 

"It's…" she stops. Her mind says Marie. Only Marie. "It's…I-...I don't…." 

She realizes, grievously, that she has forgotten it. That she does not recall her own name. 

A sense of panic suddenly overwhelms her. She's searching every memory, clawing across anything that potentially exists outside of her current reality. She had known it recently. She _knows_ she had. She remembers a plane flying overhead. A plane. The pier off the coast of her hometown. What was her hometown? Where? Where was it? Where is she from? _Austria_. No. But her Mother-...is from Austria. Was it a bird? In the sky? Not a...what had she thought it was before? 

She's spiraling. The room is suddenly confining and the chair she's in is even more so. There's a throbbing at the base of her neck that further intensifies as she tumbles frantically through her recollections. Her dominant hand finds itself running nervously through her hair, pulling her curls from their strict confines. Her frantic eyes run across the floor as she scavenges for fragments of a past life. 

Blaisdell watches her deteriorate before him in a manner of seconds. It's startling. He remains observant and impassive as she seemingly struggles to maintain a hold on her train of thought. She ruins the curls of her hair and he is unexpectedly beside himself as she runs her hand through it, acting desperately as the pins and ribbons scatter. He is quick to round his desk and kneel in front of her seat as a result. He rests before her on a single knee, his hands careful to hold one of her own in an attempt to pull her from her consternation. 

"Your Majesty." He holds her wrist as he urges her to stand. A change in posture to interrupt her thoughts. A consideration she'd not thought possible from him. 

She blinks hard before assessing his very stoic expression, humiliated somewhat by her slight trembling. "Blaisdell." 

"There are clearly past damages which prevent you from answering," he says bluntly. He wears no empathy nor any emotional regard; only the typical expression of vague assessment and ease. 

Yet she notices that his hand has yet to release her. His grip is firm and reassuring in a way that begins to imply a sense of safety, contrary to any prior considerations she'd had of him. It's warm, beckoning the realization that he is lacking any gloves and she had removed her own at the door. She thinks it rather inappropriate. She wonders when she'd begun considering such trivial things so defining to one's character. 

Her neck is flushed and it climbs up along her jaw nearly to her cheeks. She watches his eyes run down to her collar before fixating back on her eye line. A peculiar action that she could jokingly relate to Fersen, had Blaisdell not appeared so deathly serious. 

Marie frowns, frustrated with herself. "I wanted to."

He seemingly becomes a bit more self aware, deciding to take a step back and remove his hands from her person. She realizes a tension has lifted that she had not initially recognized. And she'd rather enjoyed it in the same way she enjoyed taunting Marquis de Lafayette into dancing. 

"Your Majesty, I ask that you please forgive my inane curiosities. It was not my intention to upset you. Simply...attain facts," he bows low. She thinks it rather out of character for him. She's never known him to sincerely apologize save for very rare interactions with her husband. 

Her hand raises to waive off the action entirely. "An apology is not needed. Just...my own inadequacies have rendered me intrepid, Blaisdell. Please forgive my lack of thought."

"Lack of? Or abundance?" He smiles tauntingly like before, lifting the mood. 

She huffs a laugh. "You tease again."

"Not my intention, my Queen." 

"I doubt that," she maintains her mild smile. "Though it isn't as if I don't appreciate it."

He pauses, eyes running over her expression as though he were considering something of importance. "Shall I do so more often?"

She laughs, her hand concealing her smile. He recognizes his own disappointment in the meaningless action. It pulls at his chest like Consumption.

"Tell me, Blaisdell," she begins thoughtfully with a finger to her bottom lip. His eyes follow the action religiously. "Is this conversation inappropriate? From yours or any other perspective?"

He is caught silent. Unresponsive. By the tongue. She finds a thrill in knowing she'd rendered him speechless for once. Her grin is wide and teasing and powerful. He finds himself so unbalanced that he wears no expression and stands at greater attention. It is his turn to glance out of the window, evasive of her expectant visage.

"Highly," he says. She catches the upward quirk at the edge of his mouth. Brief, but barely notable. 

"I'd thought as much," she smiles genuinely. "I apologize, dearly, for taking your time. Thank you, Minister."

Her hands work to make her hair more presentable. Undoubtedly, her current state leaving his study will result in speculation among his staff. It concerns him momentarily, given his hard earned prestige and title among countless nobility. That he of such trust and standing would be rumored in having physical relations to the Queen as though he is Axel von Fersen. 

Her hand finds his own yet again, offering the same slight pressure as she'd applied in the garden. A physical thanks. He watches her intently as she turns to depart and the contact leaves him. He bows, the same hand over his heart, which is rapid. 

He suddenly finds that he doesn't mind the risk of speculation at all. 

"It is my honor, my Queen. I hope only to see you again." 

Marie smiles kindly. She certainly does not think of such an invitation ceaselessly for the next two days. 

* * *

End Chapter Two.


	3. Reiteration

He knocks at the doorway to her personal drawing room, and Marie calls for him to enter as casually and carelessly as ever. Her table is occupied by cutlery, coffee, and varieties of fruits and cheese. She is fixated on a book, apparently a text of Ottoman origin, but glances up as he approaches. Her smile is fond, and his breath is nearly caught as she sets the novel aside to provide him her full attention. 

She eyes a letter tucked beneath his arm securely. It holds the King’s seal and reads her name on the edge. 

“Minister Blaisdell,” she regards him kindly and formally. She thinks referring to him in any other manner may bristle him, as it'd been some time since they had spoken. She extends an open palm to invite him to sit, to which he briefly bows and holds up a hand to politely decline. “The King has you delivering letters now?” 

Blaisdell offers his usually questionable smirk. “Nothing of the sort, my Queen. I volunteered to deliver it, as His Majesty seemed rather apprehensive in allowing a servant to do so.” 

He sets the letter aside before removing a small ribbon tied as a bow from his pocket. Marie stiffens as he sets it by her forgotten book, and is quick to conceal it in her palm. An accessory she'd irresponsibly left behind in his office those few weeks prior. It’d fallen from her hair during her episode. She considers that this was likely the genuine reason he'd found the need to seek her out, the letter being a convenient excuse. She finds the gesture both kind and humiliating. 

He won’t disclose that he'd simply wanted to see her. Their schedules had failed to align within nearly a month, and her free time was dedicated to mending her relationship with Duchess Polignac. The ribbon was a prompt and conducive justification to seek her out, the letter even more so. It was painful to consider Louis’ unending nervousness the evening prior as he’d laboriously conceived the contents of the letter, furthering his reason to visit unannounced. 

“Thank you. It must pertain to the last assembly,” she assumes, choosing to regard the letter rather than mention the bow. 

Marie holds it rigidly from the table, assessing the exterior. Her eyes run down the pristine cursive. Louis has always had an impeccable script. 

"You look well this morning, my Queen." He attempts small talk.

"You look as though you've just buried a body, Blaisdell," her smile purses tauntingly. She opens the letter so improperly he must withhold his own. 

He finds himself painfully smitten with her sharp-tongued jocularity and her general informality. The feeling is comparable to an illness, which had him soliciting her presence as though medicinal. A thought that frustrates him relentlessly. 

"His Majesty has verbalized something similar in the past regarding my appearance. Do I unnerve you as much as I do the King?" A raised brow and a smug expression. He prides himself on it, she knows. 

"Not at all. I quite like it," she says it so seriously, disregarding his taunt and instead beginning to read. 

_[My Queen,_

_It is difficult to write to you, as my words may not be worthy of your perceptions. I apologize in advance, as a result. In recent days I find myself reliant upon your opinion for the most critical of affairs. You have proven yourself so astute and considerate in every choice you’ve deemed morally obligatory. And I cannot consider a future in which-]_

"Flattery, _Marie_?" Blaisdell responds calmly to her prior quip. She only half hears it. 

_[-in which you and I are not diligently working to improve the prestige and prominence of the royal-]_

"I-...” Marie looks up, suddenly baffled by his interruption. Her mind takes time to catch up to her mouth. She blinks, wide eyed, as the corners of her lips pull up in disbelief. Had he...regarded her _informally_? Her brows pinch. “ _Pardon_?"

Blaisdell smiles. 

"Shall I reiterate, your Majesty?"

She is slow to place the forgotten letter upon the table. Her hands are hesitant to idle in her lap. Her stare is relentless and curious as she challenges him yet again. "Please, do."

"Flattery, my Liege?"

Her eyes narrow. She is not so gullible, he knows. And regardless of her willingness to accept such a half-assed answer, she is certainly suspicious of his smirk more than anything else. That condescending bend at the waist and the slight raise of the brow. A mockery of the hypothetical wall that keeps their repartee civil. 

She is flustered and her complexion is pink. He takes in the sight unabashedly. She finds that he is visually comparable to a predator in that moment. 

"B-...Blaisdell that is _not_ what you-"

"Marie!” Gabrielle runs in from the hall, her heels clicking abruptly on the marble. She is carrying a large spool of green ribbon, her eyes fixated on the object as she enters. “You will not believe-...oh. Apologies for the interruption."

Gabrielle curtsies, her cheeks flushed from her over-eager arrival. It was unusual for Marie to have guests outside of her inner circle so early into the day. 

The Minister smiles and Marie notes it does not reach his eyes. She wonders if it ever has. 

"None necessary, Duchess Polignac. I was just departing."

Gabi smiles in kind, dipping her head slightly once more as he passes by. "Good day, Interior Minister."

He turns briefly, bowing again with a slight haste. "My Queen." He smiles and leaves. 

The doors draw closed.

Marie exhales, long and extensive. Her corset will not allow her the courtesy to slouch in relief. Gabrielle seats herself close and begins to pick mindlessly at the cutlery. Lilac eyes run over her friend’s posture observantly. 

" _Marie_..."

The Queen clears her throat, adjusting in her seat to better face her companion and the long forgotten spool she'd run in with. "Your news, Gabi?"

"No no, that's old news now,” she waves off the newly purchased ribbon effortlessly. It was merely at a notable discount. “What was that?"

"What was what?"

Gabi smiles devilishly. "Were you... _exchanging_ _quips_...with the left hand of the King?"

"Nonsense. He hardly holds me in any high regard,” she scoffs, biting into a peach slice, intent on changing the subject. Her coffee has gone cold, but she'd have rather died than call in a servant during such a conversation. “The left hand? I've not heard Minister Blaisdell referred to as such."

"Just rumors among nobility. They say the King's right hand signs treaties as his left sheds blood. As sociable as he is at events, Blaisdell is rather... _inconspicuous_ , for a Minister. Don’t you think so?"

"Yes. I’m inclined to agree. Not to mention daunting and unsympathetic."

Gabi smiles solemnly. “My husband may agree with you.” 

“How is he, these days?”

“Recovering. Slowly," she says. She would never tell her to what extent. The Duchess seeks a subject change quickly. "And what of Fersen?"

Marie scoffs into her cold coffee. "What _of_ Fersen?"

"You once seemed so fond of him…" 

Marie eyes her friend in mild disbelief. "As fond as a dog is of mange, Gabi."

" _Marie_!" She laughs at the nature of the joke, though deeply sympathetic to the man's unrequited affections. 

The Queen shakes her head. 

"His letters exhaust me and the guilt I feel is inimitable. But enough of that," she sighs, her brow quirking as she considers Gabi's original question. "What does Fersen have to do with Blaisdell?"

Gabrielle smiles softly, her hand gently setting atop Marie's as though a comfort. The Queen was complicated most recently. She's endured so many changes. She's made so many personal sacrifices. Any fun or liveliness was heartily exchanged for political involvement, investing time and effort to be increasingly prominent in the recovery of the country's economy. To the extent that the people have regarded her a changed monarch. A saint. 

Gabi had watched how abruptly it'd all happened. In awe of the gradual prosperity of innumerable territories and the growth of export and imports in a single year alone. It was dedication and informality that had gotten her so far. Marie has not seemed to find much elation since. 

And yet the Queen is lighter this morning. She hesitates just as she is to take a sip of her coffee, considering something that makes her smile rather childishly into her cup. Her eyes focus briefly over the spot in which the Minister had been standing. Marie takes a sip before returning her attention to a letter from the King. 

"Nothing, I suppose," Gabi smiles. 

* * *

It is several days later that she finds him reading in the gallery, talking a moment of reprieve after a more heated debate among today's convention with the reformed aristocracy. A meeting Marie had not attended, yet had physically heard from over three rooms worth of distance.

Marie supposed it was heated given his unnatural volume, and brought two cups of coffee as a result. 

He assesses her as she approaches him, having recognized the familiar click of heels on marble and the slight squeal of porcelain cups against saucers. She's unattended, dressed casually. In something very plain and very narrow. It is sleek and of a modest color, clearly made of an expensive and breathable textile. Something that was insistent upon following the natural shape of her body rather than the usual excess of ribbons and lace. Her hair is done up into a simple bun.

He wouldn't call it inappropriate; only shockingly unexpected. Enough so that he could not bring himself to taunt her about such a choice in apparel, and was instead resolute in his reading rather than looking in her direction. 

Blaisdell is already not in the right state of mind to speak to her normally. So he begrudgingly chooses to disregard her entirely and focuses on his novel. 

Marie takes a seat across from her company, noting the barely present frustration in the slight pinch of his brow. She sets one of the two cups in front of him. He doesn't notice. 

"You seem rather fixated on that text, Minister." She prods him, a gentle smile urging his attention. 

He doesn't respond. His eyes run lines along the pages. It is a book of political reform. An older text calling for a new system based upon political and economic equality. One that made Louis rather uncomfortable, if she recalled correctly. 

" _Blaisdell_?" She leans forward in her seat, attempting to address him. 

It must be interesting, as he responds mindlessly. Or he must be cross, given the meeting. "Of course, your Majesty."

She raises a brow. How unusual for him to be so casually distracted. She wonders if she should be flattered by this level of comfort. "I'm curious to know what it's about."

"Certainly." He says nothing else, and she finds it rather humorous. He responds to her as though an unhappy man would to his wife of years, with little attention due to repetition and routine. 

"Well. Since the book is apparently about stagnant silence, perhaps you'd instead like to know about my day?" She taps her nail at the edge of her plate, making as much disruptive noise as possible. She sips loudly before setting her cup down firm and jostling it against the edges. 

He still does not respond, and instead nods as though he is listening intently. She realizes she is truly speaking only to herself. And yet...it was an opportunity she could not possibly overlook.

"Oh good," Marie waves a passive hand at nothing in particular. "I thought as much. First, Louis took me through the gardens before your meeting. He sought my opinion on the change in the political atmosphere of his colleagues. He seemed far more confident in me this time around."

"Hm." Barely audible, his eyes still running across the pages.

"Then, I had a picnic brunch with Lafayette, to repay him for his support in the last assembly on exports. He said I make a surprisingly delightful fruit assortment," she prides herself jokingly before taking a sip. 

He remains silent and inattentive. Two things she knows he certainly is not. 

"And then Gabrielle and I flew to the moon in my carriage with d'Eon. We managed it to fly with faith in Christ and the overwhelming amount of smoke Fersen tends to blow up his own ass." Marie pushes her coffee away, far too amused with herself. 

Blaisdell nods. "Of course. A rewarding experience, I'm sure, my Queen."

She almost snorts, momentarily slack-jawed, looking at one of the most powerful and influential men behind the throne as though truly an imbecile. Marie laughs silently at his true disinterest, her teeth pulling back at her bottom lip as she concocts an idea. One which stems capriciously from his disacknowledged informality days prior. 

Her hands rest together on the table as she averts her gaze to the nearest mural, feigning interest in the art. "Quite. I'm sure you'd have enjoyed the flight, Blaissy dearest."

There is a stiff silence that she fights a smile through. His expression falters mid-paragraph and he looks up at her suddenly, his hand setting his book down firmly. His expression is uncharacteristically serious and she withholds any physical responses. She looks at him so normally, as though he hadn’t just heard something so severely precarious. He can see the mirth in her eyes, regardless.

"Pardon, your Majesty?"

"Shall I reiterate, Interior Minister?" She grins wide as he narrows his expression at her mockery.

"Do so, my Queen." Not even a polite interjection or request. It was nearly a threat, and she was daring enough to find the tone attractive. 

"I said, I’m sure you would have enjoyed dinner that night. Messy politics,” she sighs, smirking. “You're aware d'Eon and I don’t always align politically, and such a topic of conversation is typically a propensity of yours.” 

His smirk is venomous and she lives for it. 

"I must insist, my Queen, that you _properly_ reiterate-"

" _Oh dear_ ," she interrupts him and his look of warning disbelief entertains her wildly. "I apologize, Minister, but I realized that I'm nearly late for a fitting. Perhaps we can discuss this at a later date?"

She stands to leave, successful and absurdly pleased with herself. 

" _My Queen._ Certainly you've time for one last repartee." His book is long forgotten as he stands with her, insistent. His jaw is set tightly as he watches her cross the room. His dominant hand rests over his chest and the other is tense at his lower back. 

His expression is knowing and threatening, eyebrow raising as though challenging her not to repeat herself. 

"Unfortunately not. Leonard can't be kept waiting when he has a new dress in mind. Perhaps next time." She waves a lax hand over her shoulder, entirely informal as her heels click to the door. 

"My Queen, I'm inclined to inqu-"

"If only we'd exchanged a bit more," she interrupts again as she leaves the room. She takes one last look at him, grin devious. "Good day, Blais Dearest!"

"You cannot be serious, your Maje-"

She shuts the door abruptly and leaves him to fester. He swiftly turns back to his disregarded book and the cups she’d left behind, bothered beyond measure and unknowing what to do with himself. His drink is untouched, still warm. He realizes then that she recalls exactly how he takes his coffee, and had it prepared as such. 

He can hear her laughing playfully as she escapes down the hall. It fades at her increasing distance. His pulse is rapid.

* * *

End Chapter Three.


	4. Accusation

“Marie, you’ve my heart and soul at your disposal.” 

She sighs, deeply. He had found her on her usual walk through the property. Whether he’d been seeking her out or it was coincidental, she was unsure. Then again, Marie had found herself limited to the confines of what she's beginning to think is only an elaborate prison. As such, it was likely a simple task to find her among her routine. Versailles has proven to be a cage in which she could barely stretch her wings. And in the presence of von Fersen? Even more so. 

“Axel. What we had, it...” she falls short of a decent explanation. Her lips press together awkwardly as he kneels before her to take her hand. 

She thinks he is a fine man. He is certainly somewhat handsome. He has experience beyond measure. He'd fought in a war that was not his own. However, he'd held Marie's playful and irresponsible affections...which she now realizes are _also_ not her own. And now her refusal to acknowledge him had built up into recklessness. She'd been unwilling to tackle the issue and had disregarded it again and again. So he'd sought out a private moment to express his unyielding admiration, a feeling which she finds particularly disquieting. 

“ _Please_ , Marie," he begs. "I am yours until my final breath. I would never say these things so lightly. As your friend, and...confidante.” 

The red of her face is humiliating and burns against the breeze. The feeling that she has is comparable to a weight in her gut. It writhes and agitates her nerves like slow fire. 

“Fersen, please." Marie swallows her pride and foolishness. She realizes she must be blunt. She must be cruel, as she's learned from others. "This...we will no longer work. I no longer feel for you.” 

His jaw is slack, eyes searching hopefully for signs of a jest. His hand falls from hers as he stands, eyes narrowed pitifully as though betrayed. “My time away truly did create a rift.”

She shakes her head, adamant. “It was not your time away. I simply-” 

“It is _Lafayette_.” 

Her breath catches. It is like a slap to the face which renders her stiffly silent. He stares at her softly, demeaned and expectant of an answer. “I-...It certainly is not.” 

He gestures outwards towards the palace, posture slack and dejected. “You dance with him. You jest with him. He is at your side unquestionably.” 

Marie hardens her countenance. “He is a dearest friend, as you are.” 

“If not Lafayette then _who_?” 

“ _Why_?” She snaps. “Why must there be a man to replace you? Why must I have not made this decision of _my own_ accord?” 

He’s rendered silent. His lips press together as they exchange hesitant glances. She looks at her feet uncomfortably, hands wringing at her front. His hands rest on his hips as he sighs somewhat indignantly. 

“It’s Blaisdell,” he says. 

Her jaw goes slack. She loses her words briefly before clearing her throat to find them. “What _in all of France_ drew you to such a conclusion?"

“I thought your relationship professional and of an investigative nature. Yet here I am, like a fool, realizing that he has attained your most prized affections. I did not see as I hadn’t thought it possible.” Fersen _laughs_ . It is bitter and dry. Ironic and salted.

She's lost. He is pacing and angry and flustered. The cool air is burning her skin. His hands are tousling his hair out of rapid frustration. She's hurt him, she knows. But she does not love him. And she doubts he loves her in a healthy, genial way. She thinks herself a fascination that he'd left behind in a war. And she considers that he had built upon it letter after letter. Her sanity strains at the thought that she may lose him to her past antics. To her game of flirtation and noncommittal tendencies. He had trusted her so implicitly. He had stood by her side when even her husband and his Minister wavered.

Marie steps closer, her hands reaching for his out of immediate concern. Her grip is soft, and it stops his tantrum abruptly. Her eyes are apologetic. “Axel you are _worrying_ me.” 

When he looks at her, he is somewhat broken. Because she is truthful, and he knows that she doesn't love him. What they had has fallen through the cracks of war and suspicion. She has outgrown him, as he has outgrown her. Yet she can maintain such a kindness despite his vexing insistence; despite his bothersome advances. His brows pinch; she takes such pity on him that he forces the briefest of smiles so as to quell her worry. She wears her heart so openly and it hurts him. 

“It was not my intention. I’m merely...in need of time.” 

She remembers loving him with an unyielding dedication. Feelings that she cannot associate to now. It is confusing, and saddening, and _damaging_. There would have been a time in which seeing his expression so forlorn would have nearly destroyed her. She would have fallen to her knees in apology. Instead, she smiles kindly.

"Why do we not try to rekindle things?" she offers. "If only platonically? Join me on my walks? Or perhaps we can more frequently discuss the changes we’ve made among the noble houses?"

Fersen chuckles softly, straightening his posture and returning the grip of her hand as assurance. He inhales with closed eyes at the realization of their relationship, then offers his most sincere smile. 

"You’ve forgotten how to have fun, Marie.” He releases her hand gently and takes a step back. “Let me escort you to a coffee house in Paris, as we used to do. Spend minimally, enjoy ourselves. You've been cooped up in this place. All you do is roam the gardens anymore. Why not take a trip out of Versailles?"

She raises a brow, her lips pursing to hesitate on a response. 

“Platonically, of course, My Queen.” He grins playfully, and she relaxes, rolling her eyes. Marie considers that this is better. That this is how it should be. 

"I suppose there is no harm in it. You said things are improving notably in the city. I'd like to see it for myself."

"And have fun, of course."

"Yes,” she agrees. “Let's try." 

* * *

She was a fool, admittedly. Their destination had shifted from a coffee house to a restaurant to a tavern. It was several hours into their adventure when she’d lost her wits in their laughter as she recalled old habits. Harmless habits she’d once buried alongside blood-ridden jewels and expenses. 

She is lightheaded by the joviality of the place. The evening air is cool through the open windows and the people are warm from the drinks. Marie is admittedly bolder than she's been in some time from a simple cup of wine. She is not the Queen among them; as such she dances freely and without formality with a random partner to a random song. Exchanging hands among others as they stumble about the main hall.

She is dressed simply as though among peers, not subjects. Her hair is loosely tied and tangled from activity; unpowdered to blend in with the crowd. She is playing a game she should not be playing. And yet the relief and freedom has unwound her in a way which she craves like clean air. It is an addiction...one that exceeds even beyond the attention and praise of a formal ball. 

Her dominant arm loops into Fersen’s as she dances to upbeat things that seem nearly foreign in tone. Amiable musicians and careless singing among patrons. The room is loud when he raises his voice to ask her a question, sincerely and without expectation or resentment. "Is this not what you needed?" 

Marie must nearly yell for him to hear her, leaning upwards towards his ear. Another woman bumps her as she dances by; she better grips his arm to maintain a respectable balance. "I have to thank you, Axel. I never thought I'd have missed cheap wine so dearly." 

Her laughter is like a decorated knife.

“I doubt it’d be a difficult request in Versailles,” he reasons. 

“Between Blaisdell and Deniau? I doubt it’d even be allowed on the property!” She giggles at the thought...and he finds himself hopeless. An agony strikes him so evidently that he wears it on his face as clear as physical pain. Marie wonders, _oblivious_ , what causes it. 

“You deserve the world, Marie.” 

She feels hesitant to answer. Realization is slow to her. The crowd is boisterous and the music only grows louder the more they waste time into the evening. Her hands leave him suddenly as she smiles, a sort of need to feel sympathetic wounding her energy. She wonders if he had... _misinterpreted_. Or perhaps if she extended herself too informally.

“Fersen, I-” She stops, reading the look of actual shock that he’s directed behind and somewhat above her. Her heart skips strikingly at the risk of recognition among the masses. 

She turns, abruptly halted by the close proximity of a painfully familiar jabot and vest. Marie blinks, yet again slow to recognition before she angles her attention up to acknowledge the man fully. He smiles politely, barely tolerant of her attire.

Fersen takes a very obvious step back before offering a respectful nod. 

“Blaisdell!" She smiles warmly and casually, speaking over the room’s noise. She considers the slim chances of running into him here. They amount to absolutely none. "Does a man of your blood and stature truly frequent this est-"

"You embarrass yourself," he interrupts. Cooley, competently, and without irritation. A casual statement that she knows is hostile by the words themselves and the slight dissatisfaction behind his eyes. His hands are tense at his lower back and his shoulders are set firm.

She realizes too late that she must look a mess. 

Her smile refuses to waver. It irks him far too efficiently for Marie to ever yield. "Yet you are the only one here to recognize and approach me." 

She turns to seek Fersen as support, only to find his place filled by strangers mingling among themselves. Her breath catches. He’d left her. She wonders, briefly, _why_...as she knows he is not one to succumb so easily to fear. Particularly fear of political prestige. Or if it instead stems from his accusation the evening prior. Of his thoughts on her relationship with the Minister himself. 

But Blaisdell interrupts her consideration, curt and on the brink of irritability. His brows pinch, and she smiles at the ridiculousness of him losing his levelheadedness over a night in Paris. 

"I _implore_ you to wait in the carriage outside," he says it as though a threat, not a suggestion. The passive look on his face is still the most impressive facade of composure. She finds his frustration attractive in a way she cannot justify. 

The drink will not allow her to capitulate. "Have you come here only to cause a scene, Minister?"

He inhales deeply, gazing briefly over the crowd and placating himself among the noise. Any prior questionable glances from the masses have since been distracted and drowned by the music. And he has yet to state her title or utilize her name. The Minister leans closer as though to intimidate her, genuinely enraged. He’s beginning to wear his anger; the corner of his mouth twitches with breaking impatience. She finds the stiffness of his posture more rigid than normal. He stands out so obviously and uncomfortably in a commoner’s environment. She considers that he stands out just as much among their own peers of nobility. 

Blaisdell scoffs. "This is beneath you, my Queen." 

Marie fails to withhold her grin, her hand finding a bold rightness by running her index along the edge of his vest. He could not possibly be any more tense. "Is now not the best time to jest about being beneath _you_ , Interior Minister?" 

His jaw clenches. She is testing him, truly. A cruel joke. Her dress is slim. Simple. Expressive in ways he finds unacceptable. Her face and neck are flushed and her skin is hot to the touch. He imagines her beneath him, back arching off crisp sheets and hands gripping relentlessly. He considers what she'd sound like. If she’d taste like coffee or the garden or her rare occasional teas. She laughs at his silence, oblivious to his imagery.

"I am taking you back to Versailles,” he is fuming and shows almost none of it. Her grin is wide. “ _Now_." 

Marie finally obliges, thrilled with her success. 

* * *

Marie sits, bored. Her hands fiddle with the hem of her dress, which she considers is more notable and prominent when not adorned with lace. Her head starts to throb. She’s losing her buzz to a migraine and Blaisdell’s ceaseless berating. She can barely hear him arguing with Fersen outside the carriage.

She ponders over what they could be bickering about for so long. If her brief escapade into town was as severe as he'd made it out to be. She recalls doing it time and time again in the past. Old memories that she's uncertain are her own. Bits of information that are slowly developing into far more tangible recollections. She shakes her head, eager to forget this nonsense. Partial to yearning for more wine. Their voices fluctuate between uncontrolled tones and tense whispers. It lasts for an extensive amount of time before her curiosity finally urges her to set an ear against the door.

"Yet you think so little of her that you'd put her in danger?" He calmly hisses the allegation, accusatory and as though he’s speaking with a criminal. 

"It was _not_ dangerous, Blaisdell, it was _fun_. I doubt you’ve heard of such a thing." She can hear Fersen smiling like an idiot. She nearly laughs. 

"What if she'd been recognized?"

"I would have-"

"This is not an opportunity to promote your affections.” He slams something against another. She finds herself still listening intently despite the slight reverberations against the panels. “France has seen economic improvement, but that does not guarantee that the people entirely adore her as we do.” 

Silence. Weighted. Festering. She swallows, focus still rather inhibited. 

Fersen clicks his tongue. “As _we_ do?” 

Another bout of silence, only interrupted by the distant laughter of strangers from the tavern. 

Blaisdell scoffs. “You’re an untrustworthy disgrace.” 

“And you’re a lucky man,” Axel sighs. Blaisdell withholds any response. “Escort her. I’ll see myself home.”

The Queen clambers back into her seat before the door begins to open, crossing one leg over the other inconspicuously. She examines her nails, ignoring him entirely as he sits directly opposite. 

He continues to look at her as though she were either stupid or a pariah. Marie wants to keep laughing; she doubts that will solve any of her immediate issues. The carriage begins to move. She can hear the trot of the horses. Her hands find comfort against the silk of the cushions as she leans back and slouches. Her feet are sore from the dancing. 

Blaisdell is eyeing her so judgmentally she can feel it without having observed him. It reminds her of the early days when he’d dealt with Jeanne. How critical he'd been of her decisions and character. She easily recalls the rather dubious implications he'd made when offering solutions to her predicament. She smiles at the memory, eyes fixated on the curtains absentmindedly. 

“So the rumors are true.”

She looks up to find him reading a small pocketbook with a vague title regarding tax provisions. She wonders if he’d lend it to her after tonight. 

“What rumors?” Marie narrows her eyes, standing up to cross the small space and seat herself beside him. She drops down unceremoniously and glances at his reading material. His shoulders stiffen noticeably, but he doesn’t look away from the text. 

“Regarding the relationship between you and von Fersen.” 

Her jaw goes slack as her attention fixates on his profile. "They most certainly are _not_.” 

“Truly, my Queen?” He closes the book, shoving it firmly into the inner breast pocket of his coat. He meets her eye judgmentally. “After sneaking out of Versailles as though a caged bird?” 

“You _accuse_ me?”

“I _observe_ you.” 

She reels at the irony. Of how Fersen had only just accused her of something rather similar hours before. She’s upset, biting anxiously into her lip. He watches the action intently, finding himself pathetically resentful as she speaks. “Not well enough, Minister.” 

He knows otherwise. “You deny it?"

“Ask him yourself.” 

"As though that would reveal anything noteworthy."

She leans back in her seat, creating a pitiful distance. She realizes that he has hurt her in a shockingly familiar way. One she can compare to her case in the necklace, specifically Auguste’s distrust in her insistence of innocence. She recalls vividly how they’d all looked at her. That level of severe disapproval that was so evidently unwilling. She’d crawled out of the mud to prove her lack of involvement. Violated formalities and etiquette just to earn a sliver of their confidence.

Her agitation begins to show in the red of her neck; her hands wring into the elegant sleeves of her dress. She considers, after all that she’s been through, that Blaisdell makes her vulnerable. Perhaps as sensitive as she’d been when she’d first found herself in Versailles. The idea scares her momentarily.

Her voice raises and she sounds almost spent. "Perhaps it might reveal that I am truly _not fucking_ Hans Axel von Ferson." 

"What?" His eyes narrow. The word sounded foreign and displaced in her sentence. English. Atrociously aggressive. She blinks, uncertain of herself for only a moment. 

Marie sighs, her posture loosening as she leans against him casually. Nearly apologetic.

"I’m not sleeping with Axel. What more do you want of me?" 

She sets her cheek on his shoulder and closes her eyes. The shift of the carriage and the sound of the gravel beneath the wheels lulls her. She is pouty and exhausted and smells of wine. He realizes that she is genuine, and her demeanor is as though she’s wounded. The relief he feels is immeasurable. Blaisdell sighs heavily, unwilling and unable to maintain his indignation. He thinks himself less in recent months. Scorned by her disinterest. By her marriage. Her supposed affairs. He will not admit his own jealousy. And yet he has felt guilt for the first time since childhood.

"You've not the slightest clue," he admits. 

"None." Her smile is gradual as she recognizes his more amiable disposition. He’s forgiven her irresponsibility, and she feels less tense in knowing he was no longer intending to be cross. “How did you even know where we’d gone?” 

“You think you’d ever leave Versailles without someone knowing?” His smirk is in his tone of voice, and she wishes she’d had the energy to open her eyes and return it. 

“D’eon,” she guesses confidently. 

He won’t confirm nor deny. 

She is against him heavily, leaning into his arm as though it were proper. Her fingers run aimless patterns along the cuff of his jacket. Her hair is wild and undone and it grazes his jaw as she breathes evenly. His teeth grit at the sensation. They are confined and close and she is being painfully and erroneously intimate. He runs his index under the edge of his collar, loosening the bind.

Marie thinks his pulse is fast.

"God has forsaken me with such an infatuation." 

"What does that mean, Blaisdell? Speak as if a normal human and I may be more reasonable to understanding.” She sighs tiredly. “You are my closest friend in Versailles and yet I've hardly ever a clue as to what you say." 

He smirks, adjusting his posture despite her comfort. "Of course, my Queen. I'd not want to further strain your mind."

"Bastard," she mumbles.

  
  


* * *

End Chapter Four.


	5. Bold

He rarely finds himself idle, if ever. A Minister’s work, personal or under direct request of the King, has always left little room for unproductive spare time. Even beyond his professional obligations, he's admittedly not one to lounge during the day without a purpose. 

Yet his morning is painfully unproductive. Spent confined in his office behind the facade of handing administrative duties. In truth, he's stagnant at his desk and comparable to stone, hand against his mouth in absent-minded reflection.

His normal focus is inhibited by the very vivid recollection of his latest trip to Paris. Which is a situation he would ordinarily describe as forgettably mundane and unseemly, given the questionable quality of the particular district. Despite location, the circumstance besets him with an unfamiliar sense of dissatisfaction; admittedly leaving him inattentive of all else. Specifically, his distraction is caused by Marie and her particularly inelegant behavior. 

He'd found her beautiful. But that is a very normal observation for anyone with an appreciative eye for appearances. Most women who can afford to pamper are rather seemly. What he found disconcerting was his reasoning. 

In the tavern, his assessment of her dancing alongside von Fersen had lasted far longer than necessary. Her joviality and energy appealed to him despite her grungy and mediocre environment. He found it unsettling that she was far more attractive in such a state of sweat and cheap drink than she'd ever been in a ballroom decorated with strings of pearls and imported lace. 

He begrudgingly admits that she had made the evening look appealing. But the abruptness in which she'd clutched to her date's arm like a lifeline, gripping onto familiarity within her foreign environment, had readily reminded him of his purpose in bringing her back to Versailles. Had Axel not appeared so evidently and sickeningly forlorn when regarding her, the Minister’s disgust would have likely been unhinged. To shamelessly involve one's self with the Queen is to cause potential stress and emotional detriment towards her husband.

However, Blaisdell's complication was, surprisingly, not his standard offense on behalf of the King. Any minor slight against Louis was typically enough to bring him quick to disapproval, as the King, though overly fastidious, had earned his indisputable respect. Rather, it was his sense of pride which had degraded him. Watching her depend upon von Fersen had somehow been a deeply personal affront. 

With more consideration, he admitted the cause to be a very simple concept; a primal, undistinguished and rather uncomplicated desire born of envy. Simply, Marie should have been on _his_ arm, rather than Axel's. 

And he found the idea so comically _absurd._ The sheer _hypocrisy_ was damning. But his sensibilities managed to justify such an obtuse supposition. Fersen does not often help her, protect her, or entertain her. And Lafayette, though dependable, is rather inefficient in his brunt methodologies and limited availability. Her banter with the King is not entertained nor on the precipice of a game. Her conversations with Fersen are basic and lackluster. Whereas her exchanges with the Minister are often suave and dryly humorous. Additionally, it is his literal profession to assist in both her personal and political affairs. And he admits that he extends himself further to aid in her protection, through both political manipulation and hired awareness. Therefore it would make sense as to why he'd found himself covetous of her trust. And it was nothing more than the ties of their professional relationship bleeding into their sociality. 

It is his obligation to assist in protecting the crown, which had somehow caused such an indefinable tension between them as monarch and subordinate. He considers that this may be an excuse, one to deter a confession which would further incriminate himself as a hypocrite. Regardless, he will admit such reasonable protectiveness over the Queen without hesitation. It has evolved beyond an obligation into a want. 

He remains nearly motionless at his desk, elbow firm on its surface, knuckles pressed into the line of his mouth as he considers her state that night in the carriage. He refuses to admit to wasting an hour of mid-morning recalling her cheek pressed into his shoulder, the smell of wine prevalent off her breath. The disheveled elegance of her hair is distinct in his memory, tangled and displaced by her dancing alongside the poor she vouched so readily for. 

Her laughter broke through the music so specifically. Her elegance is born from her joy, not her punctuality nor distinction. 

He thinks about her wasted kindness and dedication to a country she holds no real obligation to. The way she battles the beginnings of tears so as not to expose weakness. The firmness of her demeanor when faced with opposition. She’s become rather simple; made happy by as little as soft fabrics, tea and cheap wine. He could willingly drink it in her company, if only to hear her laugh as blissfully as she had in the tavern. 

He realizes his propensity for the closeness they’d experienced on the trip back to Versailles. 

He could have kissed her. He'd undeniably wanted to. 

He considers manipulating circumstances to ensure he has another opportunity. Perhaps a dismissive letter to which she might confront him. Maybe an unlabeled gift which would boil over her curiosity into asking. 

He thinks he'd find satisfaction in simply buying her things she generally refuses out of self control. Make her flustered. Press his mouth to the back of her hand. He wonders what he could do to hear her laugh…

His fist shakes the surface of the desk abruptly, jostling his untouched cup against its saucer. Cold tea finds the edge. The action does nothing to hinder his deliberations, nor does it lessen his reprehensible desire to see her. The very thought is distasteful; defamatory to his loyalty to the King. Even regardless of Louis' very evident lack of romantic appreciation for his wife. Even if it is painfully well known that Auguste holds no love for her beyond a kindred friendship.

Blaisdell had allowed himself to jest and banter with Marie easily and with reason - they had become rather dependent upon one another as political tensions rose. He’d thought the exchanges harmless. A trivial test of his once unquestionable practicality. But the evolution of such meaningless flirtation was unanticipated and once thought entirely impossible. And to act on such awareness would be critically damning. The consideration alone paints him a traitor despite her platonic relations to her husband. 

He desists, immediately making the sound decision to refrain from interacting with her. A problem evaded is rarely one solved, but in this case he can reason that scarcity is a prudent resolution. He insists he keep their relationship professional, as it had been when Marie was... _previously different_. Their interactions would be curt; elegantly brief and without consideration. 

He will ignore her in an attempt to purge her from his focus. A methodology that has already frustrated him despite his insistence to self. 

She smiles often around him. He's reminded of their recent repartee, wandering dangerously to her bold jest in the tavern, insistent on closeness. She'd run her fingers along the edge of his vest and grinned something so evidently wanton. 

_"Is now not the best time to jest about being beneath you?"_

Something said with such little consideration nor seriousness has plagued him. She has obscured his priorities and inflicted some unreasonable longing. He prides himself on the usefulness of his imagination when tied to political resolve, but the consideration of Marie in his bed is admittedly beyond gratifying. He wonders if she is loud. High-pitched. Cute. Or if she would dig her nails into flesh rather than elicit herself verbally. He thinks to leave marks along her collarbone downwards until she gives. He considers how she may look when simply glancing to him over a bare shoulder as he unties her corset. 

He imagines waking up to her, undone and tangled and ghosting lips over skin. How disheveled and natural she must be when first awake. 

He stares almost hatefully at the quill on his desk. The Minister begins to think himself scorned. As not only is she entirely out of his reach, but she likely fails to reciprocate. And he cannot determine which is more demoralizing. 

He dares to ask, only momentarily, if he could have attained her affections had she not been married. If he would dare to. 

Blaisdell shuts his eyes firmly and inhales deep, as though enduring a headache. He clears his throat against his hand, standing steadily to face the rest of the day. 

He does not swallow thickly at the memory of her grip briefly in his, expressing her quiet gratitude in the gardens. Nor does he consider what he could have instigated when she'd made herself his sole company that day in his home office. He does not think of his untouched tea, wasted by his own neglect and distraction. Nor does he recall her love of it, despite the memory of the slight quirk of her lip against the bitter taste of coffee. 

He does not consider once that he may have grown frustratingly fond of her. Or that he desires more from her than a sexual encounter. 

The Minister reassures himself that he's done none of these things, as those would be the actions of a pining man who's pressed too far. 

* * *

She thinks the Minster acts rather out of sorts as of late. She'd encountered him normally once or twice, only to be strategically evaded conversationally, then physically. He'd left their encounters abruptly with little to no verbal exchange, strictly addressing her husband or alternative company each time. Marie can easily admit it was frustrating, as she is rather reliant upon Blaisdell for information regarding the temperament of the nobility. 

It was not abnormal for their schedules to separate for weeks at a time, as she often rarely encounters Louis during busier months. But she had intentionally sought him out more than once for specific requests or opinions, and he had still evaded her, swift and remorseless, as though she carried a plague. In the very brief instances that she does firmly speak with him, his eyes specifically avoid her or focus on whatever he has on-hand. She finds herself at the edge of anger each time he respectfully dismisses himself, evasive of any confrontation with a standard bow and passive expression. 

He acts as he did when they'd first met. Calm and dismissive, the slightest smile that was always rather condescending. 

Marie wonders if he is so blithely agitated by their previous disagreement that he'd rather avoid her than discuss it. She'd thought it resolved, as their ride back from Paris had been amicable and typical. She'd fallen asleep into his shoulder and he'd woken her upon arrival back in Versailles. They bid one another goodnight, and that was that. 

She considers that perhaps his dismissiveness of her temporary escape from Versailles had been fraudulent to evade their argument. Otherwise, she's entirely lost on his reasoning. 

All she knows for certain is that it's made her rather lonely. And there is a knot in her stomach, bothered at the thought of his avoidance. 

She voices this concern to Gabrielle, who suggests she write him a letter so as to respect his distance. Hopefully he would respond in kind, and with a reasonable and curt explanation. 

She doubts he would open her letter much less read it. Not only would he prioritize correspondence with origins from outside of Paris, but she considers such a method to be more suited to her husband. She is not an indirect person, she supposes. 

She asks the King for his opinion over dinner. Louis admits it is unlike him, and nothing about Marie has been mentioned. He offers to inquire on any potential disagreements his Minister may harbor. Marie thanks him, but declines, insisting she’d figure it out eventually without confrontation. He agrees it may be best, given Blaisdell’s already indirect and evasive methodologies. But the look of concern on Auguste's face tells her he may ask anyway if there is time for it. 

The day after, von Fersen runs into her in the main hall, having just parted from an exchange on foreign relations with their estates commissary. She brings up the Minister’s distance after idle talk of his diplomacy and political intentions. He nearly laughs at her, as though he knew something she did not. Her ire is evident, worn plainly in the exhaustion of her expression. Axel jests that perhaps Blaisdell is evading Marie due to her radiant personality, which would surely cause someone so stiffly dull endless grievances, justifying his evasiveness. To confront the issue, he suggests slapping the man on sight. 

She ignores his taunts, regret unending, opting instead to simply await the next meeting among the King's cabinet and aristocracy. She would approach him immediately after, and then undoubtedly she'd demand an answer. He cannot avoid her until death, she thinks.

* * *

It's a financial meeting consisting of the ministers, secretaries, and administrative representatives to each noble house. 

He makes no eye contact at the beginning, though she admits to barely trying. The matters at hand require her focus; she has an obligation to speak on behalf of the commoners. When she poses a very forward question towards Blaisdell's position and expertise, he answers with a rather typical expression, following the eye line of the rest of the assembly. 

She questions his opinion on the hostilities of the newly founded commoner's collective. Poor people who are still destitute despite their government’s promises of resolve. Blaisdell’s response dances around her inquiry seamlessly, leaving it unanswered and yet with unanimous agreement from his peers. Marie finds herself further frustrated. 

It is all rather standard. The usual discussions on financial and public opinion. Foreign relations, disrupted imports, the tensions of the Austrians. 

Until Louis presents his favor towards the potential abolishment of power under the monarchy. A suggestion that had initially come from the Marquis, refined by her Majesty during idle talk. A topic that she's certain Louis has disclosed to his most trusted Minister. Yet Blaisdell's slight expression of internalized agitation tells that he'd not anticipated such an unrefined idea to be so immediately shared among their peers. 

"You suggest drafting a constitution, and distributing power under a bicameral legislature? Willingly relinquishing power from the throne?" It is asked in disbelief by one of the several Ministers of Finance, one she recognizes as the informal representative of Duke Douglas. A man she is certain aided in her attempted assassination. Yet evidence remained circumstantial. 

She is proud of Louis when he speaks, exhaustion only somewhat evident. "We've found ourselves at a turning point, historically. We’ve established that the public image of the throne has moderately improved, as have sources for economic gain. Hostilities and tensions have not, despite recent improvements. Financially, our deficit has not made the necessary decreases that we anticipated upon broadening taxes into noble houses. What prosperity we see among the middle class feeds the deficit further out of their dues. Still, it fails to aid the foundation of France."

Fersen’s lips are pressed into a thin line before he speaks, hesitation obvious. "Do you not think it’s extreme to relinquish all power so abruptly?"

“Gradual dependency upon a house or cabinet is a potential option, yes.” Lafayette presents a sound answer with little elaboration. She can see his discomfort easily. He'd not anticipated Louis to present the idea so immediately. 

There are whispers. Disrespect. Concerns of money and positions of power are evident. Threats to the clergy and the status of nobility. The animosity gradually becomes louder. The Interior Minister clears his throat very obviously so as to indicate the distaste of such behavior. The sudden stillness of the room is disquieting. The tension is palpable. 

Louis hides the slight shake of his dominant hand by adjusting his collar, eyes evasive of the room’s unhinged severity. Marie sets her hand atop his other beneath the table; a sign of assurance. Her slight smile is patient and forward despite circumstance. Their fingers interlace. The King looks to her with nothing more than gratitude. And removes his hand from his wife's gradually. 

Blaisdell eyes the Queen, focus swayed by the action. The financial crisis of their country is momentarily forgotten by his ineptitude, replaced by a single, bitter assertion: The King is not in love with her. So why must she act like it?

His frustration derives from the possibility that, despite the monarch's platonic nature, Marie still may be in love with _him_. 

He does not physically respond when she catches him staring. The intensity of his blatant dissatisfaction tightens her chest. Her lungs weigh heavy at the slight anger pinching his brow. She considers that he blames her for the abruptness of their current conversation. She supposes it would be a common assumption that she would urge Auguste to speak in favor of the commoners. 

She's done no such thing, and smiles gently at the Minister. He casually evades her yet again, his attention returning to her husband. 

"Refinement is admittedly needed. We need to begin conceptualizing a distribution of power and a reform of our internal legislation. Planning can be gradual, but we cannot afford for changes to be anything but immediate," Louis clears his throat. 

The silent exchange of venom lulls the room. 

"And what is the Queen's opinion? Where does she stand?" Blaisdell looks at her when he inquires to her husband. His expression is still rather intense, and she’s not fond of his tone. Marie chooses to instead focus on Fersen, who is made so uncomfortable by the resentment of the room that his demeanor has become fastidious. 

"If you intend to ask me a question, you can inquire directly. I am present in this room, Interior Minister." 

Louis winces. 

The corner of the Minister’s lip quirks briefly as she addresses him. Her eyes narrow only slightly. "Please forgive my impertinence, your Majesty. Insult was not my intention, as you know. This is a rather pressing matter." 

She nods dismissively as he sets his hand over his heart, bowing slightly. "Of course."

"What _is_ your opinion on the matter, my Queen?" Secretary de Gatet reiterates the question, frustration evident. 

"My opinion is that our King is being rather kind in his phrasing, as is the Marquis. I can assure that our implemented changes may have improved us economically on the foreign front, but internally we are still sacrificing our lower class to improve and uphold the middle and nobility.” She stirs the pot, watching the visible discomfort of her husband's subordinates. 

"To what degree?" he asks. 

Marie must resist the desire to smile. It would be found distasteful and bitter. The actions of a scornful wench who has poisoned the mind of their monarch. Yet Louis looks to her only with approval, backed by his own fear and apprehension of what he knows is unavoidable. 

"If ownership of land did not distinguish the aristocracy, then we would potentially be looking at the dissolution of the middle class entirely,” she sighs. “Some fare better than others, as is expected, but the increasing expanse between fed and starving is so severe that it cannot continue to be disregarded. Death is a drain on this country both morally and economically. How many names on how many graves must be counted before we finally prioritize the lower classes?" 

The Marquis visibly swallows, eyes crossing the room cautiously. "What are you suggesting, your Majesty?" 

She clears her throat, nearly tempted to hesitate. "My suggestion is we abolish feudalism entirely."

The acrimony of the sudden uproar was unanticipated. 

* * *

"Have you lost your wits?" He very calmly and casually presents the question. She sees he's suddenly eager to speak with her, yet she holds little interest in returning the sentiment. 

Louis sighs, face in his palms as he slouches into the chair of his study. "Surely she hasn't, Blaisdell." 

"My Queen, do you understand what you've just _incited_?" His posture stiffens as she ignores him, eyes scanning the collection of books Louis has piled atop his desk. Topics relating to their last meeting. Historically successful acts of political reform. A newer novel from the far west. 

Her husband rubs at his eyes, stress evident as he answers on her behalf. "She does, Blaisdell."

She admits that perhaps she does not. Not entirely. She’d anticipated aggression but _this_ …the levels of threat were intense despite the limited attendance of only cabinet members and representatives. And she supposes she’d painted yet another target upon her back. It certainly wouldn't be the first time members of their own court would make attempts at assassinating her. She’s rather unfazed. Marie wonders if the trauma has yet to kick in or if she’s truly beyond caring. 

“The likelihood of a threat upon your life is yet ag-” 

“Louis, dear.” She interrupts the Minister, hands overturning one of the King’s novels as she inspects it. Blaisdell is clearly frustrated, though it only barely shows in the rigidness of his shoulders. She’s humored. 

He can tell. 

Louis is far too exhausted to assess. “Yes, my Queen?” 

“Might I borrow this if you’re done with it?”

“Of course.”

"Thank you," she hums. The lilt of her tone soothes to genuine appreciation. She eyes the Minister before leaving the room with the book, uninterested in the stern look of disapproval following the nape of her neck. His lips press into a fine line as his attention lingers on the closed doors. 

Louis prides himself in being an observant and well-learned gentleman. Yet he has a distinct feeling that the tension between the two people he holds most dear is evident to even the most uninvolved and inattentive. Rather, Marie taunts their subordinate endlessly as she cares for him more than is appropriate, whereas Blaisdell conceals his affinity rather well when she is not tormenting him intentionally. The burden to his wife and frustration to his friend has caused him grief despite their ignorance of his awareness. And that grief urges him to force an unfortunately immediate attempt at resolution.

"Your relationship with the Queen is... _strained_ as of late?" August asks boldly, recalling Marie's concerns over dinner days prior. He adjusts his posture, sitting properly. 

The man blinks at him, immediately suspicious. "I'd not thought so."

It's not a lie - not necessarily the _truth_ , either. 

"I'd greatly appreciate it...if we resolved any personal concerns within our inner circle." Louis stims at his broach. "The potential... _issues_ that may threaten the intended reform will require our uninhibited awareness." 

"I'm unaware of any such concerns, your Majesty." 

An actual lie. One which is protectively preventative. The only lie Louis has ever caught him in. He shakes his head, distantly thinking. 

"You're free to attempt speaking with her, you know." 

He turns to eye the King cautiously. Louis has implied something. 

The Minister nods, feigning ignorance to the subtle accusation. "I intend to discuss this with her further. Her Majesty seems less inclined, however, given our exchange during the conference." 

The King rubs his hand along his jaw, speaking into his fingers. "You...you misunderstand." 

A raised brow. A delayed response, jaw barely slack. He has never seen Blaisdell hesitate in such a way. 

"How so, your Majesty?"

Louis waves a dismissive hand, attention returning to a set of documents on his desk. He will not further elaborate when his closest friend is so often clear to understanding. "If...if she'd find her deserved happiness as a result, you are free to speak with _my wife_ , Blaisdell."

His Majesty is unusually bold, eyes almost daring him to deny it.

He distinctly recalls how her hand found the King's. Her laughing in the tavern. Her head on his shoulder. How she allows herself informality in his company. He remembers that her husband is not in love with her. That she knows how he takes his coffee. That she is piss poor at chess yet tolerates his invitations to play. In the instance he picks through each recollection and withholds the dense threat of anger that sits in his lungs.

He'd told her once that he'd sacrifice anything for his country and their monarch. He'd been so certain then. Certain enough that she'd believed him. Yet he finds that things are changing. 

"I doubt I'd allow it," he admits, curious expression unchanged. 

The usual bow, hand over heart. Louis shakes his head as his closest confidant turns to leave.

* * *

End Chapter Five.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is late! Thank you to everyone in the comments who showed their support and kudos. ily<3


End file.
